


They All Fall Down

by MissShawnaAlice



Series: Time Heals Everything [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accident, Angst, Hospitals, Injury, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-06-05 16:31:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6712609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissShawnaAlice/pseuds/MissShawnaAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Third instalment of Time Heals Everything - in a world where what goes up must come down, the same applies to John and Sherlock's life with Abigail; but what goes down must also come up in the rollercoaster whirlwind life of the Holmes-Watson couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Collision

Sherlock was in the middle of eating breakfast with Abby before she went to school when he realised that John wasn’t there.

_He wasn’t there making tea._

“Abby, have you seen Papa?” Asked Sherlock quietly, standing up as his heart started to sink.

“I haven’t seen John. Hurry up Daddy, I’m going to be late for school!” Exclaimed Abby, hopping down from her chair and running up the stairs. Sherlock finished his last slice of toast and put the plate in the sink, before taking Abby’s lunch out of the fridge and tucking it into her backpack, too distracted by the school preparation to consider a thought of John. Abby appeared in the kitchen in her uniform and Sherlock picked up her backpack, heading out the front door. He walked her the short distance to school and dropped her off, waving goodbye before pulling out his phone. He dialled John, tapping his fingers on his leg while he waited.

_John didn’t pick up._

Sherlock ended the phonecall and dialled Mycroft.

“Brother mine, what do you need?” Asked Mycroft distractedly. Sherlock could hear papers shuffling in the background, and Sherlock guessed he was in his office.

“Have you… have you heard from John?” Asked Sherlock hesitantly.

“No. Is he not with you?” Responded Mycroft.

“No, and he didn’t appear to be in the apartment this morning. I haven’t checked with Graham yet,” replied Sherlock.

“You mean Greg. I’ll see if I come up with anything, but call me back,” ordered Mycroft. He hung up, and Sherlock headed for Scotland Yard, navigating his way through the office building before he found himself outside of Greg Lestrade’s poxy little office. He knocked on the door briefly before pushing it open.

“Sherlock? What are you doing here? Where’s John?” Asked Greg. Sherlock didn’t answer, pulling out his phone and dialling Mycroft.

“My? Greg hasn’t seen him either. We need to find him.”

* * *

John trudged through the streets, avoiding the ones he knew had CCTV, heading out of central London, no longer sure of what had drawn him there in the first place, the lure of love and husband gone with a now six-year-old ruling the house. 

_He missed Sherlock’s warmth, his love, his presence._

Abigail had changed that, and now John wasn’t sure if he resented the six-year-old for coming into their lives. He missed doing consults with Sherlock, going out to crime scenes, spending time with him. It didn’t matter that his role in the relationship had changed to include the role of carer, but he loved Sherlock.

_He loved Sherlock with every fibre of his being._

* * *

John was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice the car racing up behind him before swerving erratically to the other side of the road, into the path of an oncoming car. The little MAZDA2 crashed into John, knocking the wind out of him before scraping across the ground.

_He blacked out for a little while._

When John came around, he knew two things.

One; he was in a lot of pain, pain that he hadn’t been in since Afghanistan.

Two; his older sister was screaming at him from the car she was trapped in.

And John became the soldier he was trained to be.

“Harry? Talk to me!” He called, dragging himself across the bitumen, legs barely working.

“John? John, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry, I’m so… oh God, it’s happening again,” grimaced Harry. John reached her, wrenching open the driver door and ignoring the piercing pain in his wrist.

“God, Harry, are you pregnant?” Asked John. Harry ignored him, trying to breathe through a contraction. John looked her over, dismayed at the injuries he found. 

_Harry would never survive._

“I’m sorry John. It happened four months after they took Miles away; I met a guy in a bar, and we hooked up a couple of times, and after I found out I was pregnant, he left, and said if I ever tried to find him, he’d report me to the police for the drugs I had in my apartment. I’m sorry John,” apologised Harry, tears streaking her cheeks.

“That doesn’t matter now. How far apart are the contractions?” Asked John.

“About a minute, maybe two minutes apart? I was trying to drive out of the city to another hospital; I didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t know how to tell you,” explained Harry.

“I understand, it’s okay. I’m going to help you deliver this baby, okay Harry? I’ll be here, every step of the way,” responded John. He glanced over his sister, looking at the impalement injury to her chest, trying to work out how he was going to deliver her baby when he wasn’t sure she could even move.

“John?” Whispered Harry. John looked her in the eyes, and followed her glance down towards her legs.

_Her waters had broken._

“Okay Harry, I’m going to recline you back a little. It’s going to hurt, but if I’m going to save both of you, I need to move you,” explained John. He released the lever on the side of her seat, reclining it back as far as he dared. He pulled the other handle to move the chair back, carefully easing her chair away from the steering wheel. Harry’s breath started to catch as a forceful contraction tore through her, leaving her breathless.

“John, you need to look after her,” begged Harry. John crawled in around her legs, pushing them apart so he could get in.

“I will, I swear. Harry, you’re fully dilated. On the next contraction, I need you to push,” urged John. Harry held her breath for a moment, before exhaling and inhaling again, bearing down as a contraction tightened across her abdomen.

_Her skin was losing its colour, paling visibly._

“Come on Harry, again!”

_Her lips were turning blue._

“You’re so close!”

_One cough had her lips flecked in blood as she delivered her baby girl into the world._

“It’s a girl Harry! She’s gorgeous,” exclaimed John, cradling his newborn niece.

“Jemima. Her name is Jemima Iris,” whispered Harry. John pulled off his jacket awkwardly, wrapping it around Jemima, and glanced up at his sister, eyes widening in alarm as he noticed the blood staining the drivers seat.

“Harry? Harry, talk to me!” Called John. He placed Jemima near the front wheel and focused on his sister.

_Harry had no pulse._

_She was gone._

John glanced down the highway, sirens cutting through the roaring sound in his ears as he realised help was finally on the way, and he felt his legs go from underneath him, bringing his injured body crashing to the ground. 

_He passed out._

* * *

“I took the liberty of picking Abigail up from school. Have you heard anything?” Asked Mycroft. Sherlock shook his head, musing over the long hours that he hadn’t seen John.

_It had been far too long for Sherlock’s liking._

“I don’t understand what’s going on! He’s been fine, and I don’t know why he would just _leave_ ,” exclaimed Sherlock.

“Because he’s not been ‘fine’ Sherlock, he’s been far from it,” answered Molly’s gentle voice, walking into Greg’s office.

“What do you mean?”

“Abby, could you go with Uncle Greg please? He’ll take you to get something from the cafe outside,” suggested Molly.

“I know you’re talking about John,” sang Abby. She took Greg’s hand and followed him out of the Scotland Yard office, leaving Molly, Mycroft and Sherlock behind.

“Every since Abby came into your lives, John has taken a back seat. To everything. You two are supposed to be married, to be in a partnership, and every time John tried to voice an opinion about parenting a child you are _both_ guardians of, you or Mycroft shot him down. She doesn’t even call him Papa; how detrimental do you think that is to John? He doesn’t feel like he fits in anymore with this family; he’s depressed, withdrawn, and you didn’t even notice. He feels forgotten Sherlock,” explained Molly. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when his phone rang.

“Sherlock speaking.”

“Sherlock? It’s Doctor Christian Shaw from St Bart’s. John’s been in an accident.”

* * *

“Daddy, I don’t understand why we’re here. Why are we here?” Asked Abby, frustrated. Greg and Molly looked at each other before watching the interaction between Abby, Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Because Papa is here, and we’re going to see him,” explained Sherlock tiredly.

“You mean John,” retorted Abby.

“He means Papa,” reprimanded Mycroft firmly. Abby glanced up at her favourite Uncle, eyebrows furrowed.

“He’s not my father,” responded Abby.

“He is your father. He is married to your Daddy, which makes him your Papa. If something happened to Daddy, he would be the one to take care of you, not I,” explained Mycroft. 

“But he’s so boring! He won’t even let me have a pony. Uncle Mycroft, I really want a pony, please,” begged Abby.

“No. You cannot have a pony,” replied Sherlock evenly. He glanced up as Christian entered the waiting room, pulling his scrub cap from his head. 

“He’s out of surgery and in the ICU right now, and we’re going to keep him there for a few days. Would you like to see him for a moment?” Asked Christian. Sherlock nodded, and stood up.

“No. I don’t want to see John,” responded Abby.

“You don’t have a choice. Come, now,” ordered Sherlock. Abby’s eyes welled up with tears as she stood up reluctantly, taking Sherlock’s hand and following him to the elevator. As they crammed inside, Sherlock wrinkled his nose, sighed resignedly and released Abby’s hand, then looked at Mycroft and Christian.

“Pick her up,” he ordered Mycroft, taking off his jacket and loosening his shirt.

“What?”

“Pick her up, face her away from me,” ordered Sherlock. Mycroft did as was bidden, passing his umbrella to Greg, who was looking grim.

“Sherlock? What’s going on?” Asked Christian. Sherlock’s jaw locked, and he collapsed to the floor, seizing violently.

“Christ. Are you alright with her Mycroft?” Asked Christian, dropping to the floor.

“I’m fine, she’s okay; why is he seizing? He hasn’t had a seizure for nearly a year,” commented Mycroft.

“I want to see!” Demanded Abby. She twisted in Mycroft’s arms and laid eyes on her father before recoiling in terror.

“What is wrong with him?” She asked quietly.

“Daddy is having a seizure. He’ll be okay, I promise,” said Christian quietly. The lift doors opened to the ICU floor, and nurses flooded in, helping Christian stabilise Sherlock.

“He’ll be okay. See? The seizure is stopping,” explained Mycroft. Sherlock’s body relaxed as the seizure waned, and the nurses lifted him onto a gurney and moved him out of the lift, checking his vitals. He came around quickly, eyes glazed and foggy, and Christian understood almost instantly.

“Who was with him today?” Asked Christian.

“He was with me at Scotland Yard most of the day,” chimed in Greg.

“Did he eat?” 

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Get him admittance paperwork, and someone draw me up a glucose dosage, and organise a diabetic meal please!” Ordered Christian. Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed, and he relaxed again; the calm before the storm. “Mycroft, Greg, Molly, you should go; he may take a little while to stabilise, and I don’t think she should see this. I’ll call you later.” Mycroft knew all too well that his brothers condition sometimes required extra medical intervention. He nodded solemnly, and headed back to the lift, Greg following, Abby screaming in his arms, Molly opting to stay behind. Christian put all of the noise behind himself, focusing on Sherlock. A nurse handed him a glucose shot, which he injected into Sherlock, marking the time. 

“I’ve got the admittance paperwork; which ward would you like to take him?” Asked a nurse. A quick glance at her name tag told Christian her name was Anna.

“We’ll admit him to the same room as John Watson so we can keep an eye on them,” decided Christian. Anna nodded and sprinted off with the paperwork, two orderlies taking her place to wheel Sherlock’s unconscious body into room 307.

“What are his orders?” Asked Anna.

“We’ll get the hypo back under control; ask Dr Parker if she can consult, just to get the blood sugar back under control. Dr Wainwright from Neurology is due to round on John after that surgery, as is Dr Marsden from Orthopaedics. I’ll be in for a few minutes,” added Christian, running a hand through his hair before sighing, and following the nursing team into room 307 just as Sherlock was coming around.

“Sherlock, you need to stay in bed; your blood sugars are too low,” said Anna gently, pushing him back down onto the bed.

“But John!” Exclaimed Sherlock.

“Is fine, he’s in the bed next to yours. Right now, you need to focus on you.”

* * *

John came to in a world of pain, gasping for air and struggling to not scream. Christian was at his side in seconds, a nurse nearby administering a dose of morphine.

“Slow your breathing down John, you were in an accident,” explained Christian gently. John noticed Molly seated next to him and Sherlock in the bed on the other side, and looked at Christian, eyes wild with fear.

“Whe…where’s Abby?” Breathed John.

“She’s with Mycroft John, she wasn’t in the accident with you. Sherlock’s in the bed next to you because he had a seizure, and Christian wants to monitor him,” explained Molly briefly, standing up to take his hand. John sought out Christian’s face, searching for the answer to his only burning question.

“Jemima?” He whispered. Christian looked confused for a moment before he realised who Jemima was.

“She’s in the NICU with Dr Whittington and Dr Kensington; she has a mild heart murmur that we’re keeping an eye on, but she’s doing well, despite the fact she’s very small. John, they brought in Harriet just after you. I am so sorry, but she didn’t make it,” apologised Christian. John closed his eyes, breathing deeply before relaxing.

“I think he’s gone back to sleep,” sighed Molly.

“What is going on? Who is Jemima?” Asked Sherlock, sitting up in bed and glancing across at John. “And what is John’s status?”

“I’ll get to Jemima later. John came through surgery quite well; he came in with a punctured lung, severe concussion, several broken ribs, a broken wrist, and upon x-ray, we discovered he had shattered the fibula and tibia in his left leg. After he was brought in, the paramedics brought in Harriet Watson and a baby. Harriet was pronounced dead on arrival, but her baby? Her baby is in the NICU, fighting hard. John woke up before surgery to tell us her name is Jemima Iris, and then coded on the table. It’s a lot to absorb Sherlock, but believe me when I tell you, both of them are doing well,” explained Christian gently.

“So what happens with Jemima?”


	2. Jemima Iris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids, I'm all for you giving me constructive criticism, as long as as there is something constructive in there - don't just list the things you hate because you hate them. I'm all for improvement, believe me.

The second time John woke up was a little more pleasant; a little less pain, a little less haze. Sherlock was sitting on the bed across from him, dressed in his Belstaff, reading the paper when he noticed John was watching him.

“John! How are you feeling?” Asked Sherlock carefully.

“A… a little sore,” admitted John quietly.

“I have to let Christian know you’re awake. Don’t fall asleep on me, will you,” remarked Sherlock. John shook his head carefully, relaxing back against the pillows. Christian walked into the room, Sherlock behind him, eyes fretting.

“John. You’re looking a sight better than you did a few days ago,” commented Christian. He ran through a serious of observations, noting them down on John’s chart.

“How is Jemima doing?” Asked John once Christian was finished. Christian elevated John’s head a little, then took a seat at the end of the bed.

“She’s doing well,” he said hesitantly.

“What aren’t you telling me?” Responded John.

“Abigail doesn’t approve,” answered Sherlock quietly, head bowed.

“What do you mean ‘Abigail doesn’t approve’?”

“Mycroft brought her in to visit, and Anna suggested they visit the NICU to see Jemima. Abigail had a complete emotional and psychological breakdown, and we called in Doctor Elise Harper, Head of Paediatrics and Abby’s previous paeds nurse Imogen, Nursing Unit Manager for Paediatrics. The decision was made to sedate her and then Elise made an appointment with a psychiatrist. She’s been diagnosed with an unusual form of Reactive Attachment Disorder, and they’re going to come and have a meeting with you and Sherlock to discuss how to handle her,” explained Christian. John sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, feeling his head swim. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock and Christian were peering at him, concerned.

“We need to involve Mycroft in this meeting as well. He’s her Uncle, and he was with her when she was trapped in the basement. He’s already seeing a psychologist about his time there as well as the loss of Oliver and Charlotte. He’s been part of the problem as well,” sighed John, closing his eyes.

“Problem?” Enquired Christian, glancing between Sherlock and John, Sherlock averting his eyes and fiddling with the edge of the blanket on the bed. 

“Abby hates me, and goes to Sherlock and Mycroft for anything and everything, and they give it to her. Then she becomes more defiant, angry, and I find myself becoming the bad guy when I have to say no. Then, because I’ve said no, Sherlock fawns over her, lavishing gifts on her, or telling Mycroft what happened, and then he gives her things. She’s six, and she has a better mobile phone than I do, not to mention and iPod and an iPad. I have no control in this relationship. I don’t have anything anymore,” replied John resignedly.

“John, what were you doing out on the road today? You had a backpack with a few things in it, but not much. Why were you there?” Asked Christian gently.

“I needed some space. Needed some time to think. I didn’t know what I wanted to do; my husband no longer spoke to me, my six-year-old hated me, and my own brother in law disagreed with everything I said. I had no friends who had time for me, and my own sister couldn’t stop shagging some random bloke long enough to have a conversation. I had no support from people whom I called friends, and even Molly started to drift away after a while. I don’t even know where I was going,” admitted John. Sherlock’s hand drifted across his own lips, still trying to work out how the great consulting detective had missed John’s obvious depression.

“John, I’m going to prescribe you a mood stabiliser, help balance you out, and then we’ll have a briefing with both your new psychologist and Abby’s psychiatrist. I’ll get into contact with Mycroft, and organise it for later tonight. For now though, I think you two need to talk, and reacquaint yourselves with each other.” Christian stood up and left the room, Sherlock watching him leave. The room was quiet for a while, each man lost in the maelstrom of their own thoughts.

“I didn’t know you felt like that,” whispered Sherlock.

“You were preoccupied,” responded John.

“But I knew, when we left the hospital with Abigail, that you weren’t right. I am sorry John,” apologised Sherlock. He crept around to John’s good side, and laid on the bed, cuddling close to John. John’s eyes started to tear up, and a sob hitched in his throat.

_He didn’t realise how much he missed Sherlock until now._

“John?” John tried to rollover to get closer to Sherlock, ribs shifting painfully as he moved, monitors beeping as his heart rate shot up, Christian appearing in the doorway. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John carefully before rolling him back.

“John, what’s going on?” Asked Christian. John only cried harder, struggling to regain control as the pain in his chest spiked.

“Christian, what do you need?” Asked Anna, materialising in the doorway.

“Sedation, standard dose. John, you need to calm down!” Exclaimed Christian.

“I don’t think he can,” replied Sherlock, noting the terror in John’s eyes. He took his hand and squeezed it gently in his as Anna returned with the sedation, Christian dosing John up carefully. Sherlock stroked back John’s hair, trying to soothe him as the medication worked its magic. Christian watched the monitors for a few moments more before he was content that John was settling.

“I’m going to call Mycroft and ask him to come in sooner. We need to have this meeting, and fast.”

* * *

“I’m not sure why I’m here,” commented Mycroft, taking a seat on the large lounge in the room. Imogen led Abigail inside, seating her on the floor near some toys, John and Sherlock seated on John’s bed, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“This is Doctor Nate Turner; he’s Abby’s psychiatrist, and he’s going to help you with Abby,” said Sophie gently.

“Just call me Nate. Based on Abby’s clinical presentation, we’ve diagnosed her with Reactive Attachment Disorder,” started Nate.

“But doesn’t that mean she doesn’t form standard attachments with anyone? She’s almost obsessed with Mycroft and Sherlock, and she despises me,” commented John.

“Mycroft was with her for twelve months during their confinement, and she formed an attachment to him because he was safe; he protected her from her mother, taught her new things, and was the guardian she craved during that time. Sherlock was her biological parent, and upon meeting him felt a similar connection as she did to Mycroft. You were the outlier John; you look remarkably like your sister did, and Abigail had met her numerous times, and she was verbally abusive while drunk,” explained Nate.

“So how do we help her? Will she ever love John?” Asked Sherlock. John could hear the hint of fear in his voice, and wished he could comfort his husband some.

“Once you’re home, I’m going to visit to help you get settled. We’re going to devise a routine for Abby to settle around; mealtimes, play time, sleep, whatever she needs. I’m told by Sophie and Christian that you both consult with Scotland Yard, and that Mycroft will be Abby’s primary carer when you are involved in a case; is that correct?” Asked Nate.

“Yes. We would drop her off and pick her up when we were finished,” supplied Sherlock.

“For now, I’d rather she stayed in familiar surroundings; this will help settle her routine and make her a little more compliant. You will all be briefed on her discipline routine as well; John seems to be the only sane one around. We will get a handle on her, and it’s going to take all three of you working together as a team. As Jemima grows, we will monitor her as well; she’s had a traumatic entry into this world, and she’s not developed the emotional attachments yet due to her circumstances,” explained Nate.

“I’ll be joining you as a home care nurse and an observer; Mycroft has contracted myself and another paeds nurse Lizzie to rotate around and help you with Jemima, and to observe how you’re handling the routines Nate has put in place,” added Imogen.

“John, you won’t be heading home just yet; we’d like to monitor your lungs and chest, make sure you don’t end up with pneumonia. Then we’ll do a few x-rays, check on the progress of your wrist and leg, and then you should be able to go home,” finalised Christian.

“Will Abby ever call me Papa?” John asked Nate.

“She will. It is going to take time though, and she may not start doing it until Jemima is older, and she starts to imitate her. We can also reward her for calling John ‘Papa’; positive reinforcement,” suggested Nate. He was interrupted by Abby getting up and crossing the room to John’s bed, hoisting herself up and crawling across John’s chest. His eyes widened at the pressure of her hand in the middle of his chest, and he gasped in pain, breath forced from his lungs.

“Abigail Temperance, what are you doing?” Demanded Sherlock, getting up swiftly.

“I wanted a cuddle!” She exclaimed haughtily. Sherlock lifted her off the bed swiftly, and kneeled down at her level as Christian and Sophie stood up to check over John.

“No. You need to ask if you can get on the bed. You’ve hurt Papa,” accused Sherlock. Abby’s eyes welled up in tears, and Sherlock’s heart melted a little. “I don’t mind giving you a cuddle, but you need to ask; especially because Papa is sick and hurt,” explained Sherlock. He held her close as Imogen dashed from the room, returning with a medical tray and the ICU nurse Anna.

“What’s going on?” Asked Mycroft, standing up on the other side of the room.

“Tension pneumothorax,” responded Christian distractedly. Mycroft looked at Sherlock, who was holding Abby close, and raised an eyebrow.

“Punctured lung.” Sherlock watched on as the medical team inserted a tube into John’s chest, the colour returning almost instantly.

“Right. Anna, can you organise a consult with the cardiothoracic team please? I want to know how else we can handle this for John, what other treatment options we have,” ordered Christian.

“Might be time for Abby and I to head back to paediatrics,” suggested Imogen. She took Abby’s hand and led her from the room, back towards the paediatrics unit.

“Brother mine, I’ll speak to Anthea and Mrs Hudson about sorting out space for Jemima, and perhaps an office space for John. 221C is still empty; perhaps we could renovate and take that space, create more of a homely feel for you and John. I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t mind,” decided Mycroft.

“Thank you My. Thank you for coming in,” said Sherlock softly. Mycroft nodded, and walked out of the room.

“Sherlock, they’re going to be a little while with John and the cardiothoracic team. Would you like to come down to the NICU and meet Jemima? I know last time didn’t go so well with Abby involved,” commented Sophie. Sherlock nodded, watching as a new team of doctors entered the room, then followed Sophie down the corridor. He was quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts, wishing he’d picked up on John’s distress sooner. He bumped into Sophie, still a little preoccupied, and she led him into the general unit. She tiptoed along the front rom until she reached the end crib.

“This is Jemima Iris Watson. Would you like to hold her?” Asked Sophie gently.

“I’m… I’m not sure I know how,” replied Sherlock, looking from the tiny baby up to Sophie. She indicated the nearby rocking chair, and Sherlock sat down heavily. He peeled off his heavy overcoat and took the pink blanket from Sophie, positioning it carefully.

“She’s been held a few times by the nurses, but not a lot yet. We’ve been using the rocking chair to calm her at night; she’s one of our fussy ones,” added Sophie. She carefully lifted Jemima out of the crib and into Sherlock’s arms, positioning them until the tiny baby girl was comfortable in his arms. Sophie wrapped the blanket carefully, and allowed Sherlock some time with the tiny infant. He revelled in her tiny weight, spindly little fingers, and soft blonde hair.

_She looked so much like John._

“She’s so much like John. She’s beautiful,” whispered Sherlock.

“She’s doing really well; she’s still got a mild heart murmur that we’re keeping an eye on, and she doesn’t weigh as much as we’d like, but she’s catching up. We were going to move her into paeds, but after what happened with Abby, we’ve kept them separated while Abby is here,” remarked Sophie.

“She’s amazing. Is she really mine and John’s?” Asked Sherlock, searching for confirmation in Sophie’s face. She nodded.

“Yes Sherlock. She’s all yours.”


	3. Dreaming

John felt a weight come off his chest as the chest tube went in, pressure releasing. He ignored all the mundane conversation about him about cardiothoracics and injuries, and just breathed in the heavenly oxygen before closing his eyes and drifting off.

* * *

_It was picture perfect._

_Sherlock, John, Abigail and Jemima._

_A perfect family._

_“Abby! Puddle! Are you two ready for school yet?” Called John. Jemima thundered downstairs and into the kitchen to get breakfast, hair mussed, but uniform on._

_“Morning Papa,” said Jemima, struggling to climb onto her seat. John moved around the kitchen island bench to help Jemima up onto the seat._

_“Morning Puddleduck. Ready for your first day of Year One?” Asked John. He pulled a bowl over to her and handed her the cereal; when she turned four, she was adamant she would prepare her own breakfast. At nearly five and a half, she almost had it down to a perfect art._

_“Yep. I can’t wait to make friends!” She grinned. John kissed the top of her head, and glanced at the staircase._

_“Abigail Temperance, you’d better be up!” Shouted John. She stomped down the stairs, swinging her long, dark hair behind her head._

_“I’m up, I swear. Daddy sounds like he’s sick,” she commented, snatching a bowl from the counter and making her own breakfast. John hurtled up the stairs, wondering what was wrong with Sherlock that would have Abby concerned. He swung open the bedroom door, and found it empty. The sound of retching reached his ears from the bathroom, and he pushed the door open._

_“‘Lock?” Sherlock glanced at him, eyes rimmed red as he fought the urge to vomit again._

_“The girls,” he whispered before hanging his head over the toilet again, and John realised; Abby and Jemima had had the same virus a week earlier. John dampened a cloth in the sink and wiped over Sherlock’s face and neck before helping him rise on unsteady feet, bringing him back to the bed. He laid him down carefully, smoothing back his unruly hair._

_“What do you need?” Asked John, squatting down next to the bed._

_“Could you wake up?”_

* * *

“Shit. I need an CT _now_. I think he’s got a brain bleed!” Exclaimed Mark Wainwright, checking John’s pupils.

“He was fine earlier; didn’t you order a CT scan?” Asked Christian, nodding at the nurse to leave.

“I did, but it got pushed back for one of the other victims from the accident scene, and then my intern was supposed to organise it, and he’s disappeared. Incompetent brat,” muttered Mark. “See? His pupils are unequal, and he’s unresponsive.” The nurse returned, two orderlies with her to help transfer John down to the imaging suite.

“I can’t believe we missed this,” commented Christian.

“Nor can I. If the scans say what I think they will, we’ll take him straight to surgery and repair the bleed. Look after Sherlock, okay?”

* * *

_“Sherlock? Something’s wrong with my hand; I can’t move it,” called John, trying to move his fingers experimentally._

_“You’ll be fine!” Sherlock yelled back._

_“If I drop dead, I swear,” muttered John. He tried to stand and his legs went from underneath him, sending him crumpling to the floor._

_“John? Are you alright?” Shouted Sherlock._

_“I… I can’t feel my legs,” whispered John. Sherlock appeared, crouching down in front of him._

_“Come on; Lestrade called. We’ve got a case!” Exclaimed Sherlock. John felt the crushing pressure on his chest increase, struggling to take a breath._

_“I can’t breathe. Sherlock, I can’t breathe,”  panicked John, struggling for air. Sherlock laid a gentle hand on his shoulder._

_“If you wake up, you’ll be able to breathe.”_

_“What?”_

_“Wake up John.”_

* * *

“Sherlock? I thought we might go for a walk for a while, visit some of the gardens, and take Abby with us. Would you like to grab your coat?” Asked Nate. Sherlock nodded, pulling on his Belstaff, and followed Nate down the corridors and into the lift. They retrieved Abigail from paeds, Imogen offering to bundle up and come outside with them. The quartet headed to the main floor and out into the street, across to the gardens. Abby immediately flocked to the flowers, sniffing each one carefully and lighting up as she found some purple lavender bushes.

“Sherlock, John’s been taken to surgery. He’s got a bleed in his brain,” explained Nate gently.

“Oh. Will he… will he be alright?” Asked Sherlock.

“Mark is confident that they found the bleed early enough, and the outcome looks good,” added Nate. Sherlock looked out at Abby and Imogen, traipsing through the flowers.

“I had no idea how much she seemed to detest John. I took no notice, felt that perhaps he was taking it too personally. She loved me, and that was all that mattered. In all the chaos, I never noticed how John felt. We’re supposed to be married, and I ignored him. I couldn’t remember the last time that we even cuddled, or when we spent time together. Our life became centred around Abby, and now part of my soul resents her for what she’s made John feel like,” explained Sherlock.

“I think that you both played a part in this. John should have spoken up sooner about how he was feeling; you’re supposed to be married, in a partnership, and that means he has some say as well. However, I think Mycroft has had a large part to play in this as well. He should have been supporting you both in your parenting role, not just agreeing with you. It creates a negative bond between John and Abigail when you or Mycroft disagree. And this next step is going to be hard for all three of you, Mycroft and yourself especially. Creating routine, especially when I know you and John have none, is going to be tough, and Mycroft is going to have to learn to stick to it. Abigail’s life has been nothing but turmoil since she was brought into this world, and we’ve got to try and make this a little easier for her. We’re here to help Sherlock, every step of the way,” explained Nate softly. Sherlock buried his head in his hands for a moment, allowing frustrated, panicked tears to fall. Abigail noticed straight away, head perking up as she picked up on her fathers distress. She dropped the flowers she was holding and sprinted over to him, wending her way under his arms, Imogen following at a more sedate pace.

“Don’t cry Daddy,” she whispered. Sherlock gripped her tight, Nate rubbing his back softly. Abby wriggled a little so she could see Nate’s face.

“Why is Daddy sad?” She asked quietly.

“He’s worried about your Papa, and about you,” explained Nate gently.

“Is… is Papa okay?” She asked hesitantly.

“Your Papa needed some extra attention from the doctors because he’s not feeling well, and your Daddy is feeling a little scared, because he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to him,” added Imogen.

“Did I make Papa sick?” Asked Abby sadly. Nate shook his head.

“No sweetie, you didn’t. Papa was feeling sad because he thought you didn’t love him, and he went for a walk to try and make himself feel better, and then he was in an accident. That’s why he’s sick,” explained Imogen. Abby clutched Sherlock tighter, and cried into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call John Papa,” she sobbed. Sherlock held her close, shushing her softly.

“It’s okay Abby. We’ll work on it. Together,” reiterated Sherlock. He sat still for a while, cradling his daughter as she eventually cried herself to sleep.

“We should head back,” suggested Imogen after a few minutes. Sherlock nodded, standing up and feeling his head spin. He sat back down heavily, glancing up at Imogen and Nate for help.

“I haven’t eaten,” sighed Sherlock.

“I’ll take Abby; Nate, can you support Sherlock back inside?” Nate nodded, helping Sherlock to his feet once more, and making the slow journey back to the hospital. Imogen went ahead with Abby, and when Nate and Sherlock reached the hospital doors, a wheelchair and a meal were waiting with a medical team. Sherlock accepted the offer of a wheelchair gratefully, but waved away the meal.

“Sherlock, you need to eat,” chastised Nate, crouching down in front of him.

“How can I when John is in surgery?” He asked, tearing up as his emotions got the better of him. Molly appeared in front of him, and part of his brain wondered when she had gotten there, forgetting she worked in the morgue.

“Sherlock, they’ve just brought John back from surgery. It went really well, I promise. He’s back in his room. And Greg has brought you some cases to look at while John is sleeping,” said Molly softly. Sherlock glanced at her, feeling his world swim before his eyes before it faded to black.

* * *

Muscles screamed as his lungs fought for air, eyes rolling wildly in his head, teeth clattering madly as he toppled from the wheelchair to the floor. He felt his body being moved into a recovery position, pillows stuffed behind his back, hands holding him still, and he could feel himself being deprived of oxygen, the thought of dying becoming a very real possibility. After what seemed like an eternity, his muscles relaxed, lungs inhaled desperately needed oxygen, and he felt his mouth being dabbed clean with a soft cloth. He barely opened his eyes as someone jabbed a needle into him, wanting to sob with relief that it was over.

_He’d forgotten to eat again._

“I thought I’d gotten better,” remarked Sherlock croakily as a pair of orderlies helped nurses lift Sherlock onto a gurney.

“You’ve been eating fairly regularly, and the stress and dropped blood sugar level triggered a seizure. It’s not new Sherlock; it’s the same triggers as before. Abby’s been reminding you to eat, and with her not around and John not doing it, you’ve forgotten. It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s alright,” reassured Hannah.

“I want John,” he whispered,.

“We’ll take you upstairs and leave you in his room for a while. He’s doing really well Sherlock,” added Christian. Sherlock closed his eyes as they wheeled him to the lift, mind racing with thoughts of John, Abby and Jemima. They travelled in silence for a few seconds, Sherlock silent as his mind contemplated options.

“I need to see Mycroft,” requested Sherlock quietly, breaking the silence.

“I’ll organise for him to come in once we get you settled,” replied Christian. Sherlock nodded, propping himself up as they wheeled him into John’s room. A bandage swathed his head, and nasal prongs wound their way around his ears, the colour drained from his face. 

“He looks… ill,” remarked Sherlock.

“He’s going to be fine Sherlock; surgery takes a lot out of you,” replied Christian.

“Oh. Are you sure?” Queried Sherlock.

“I’m quite sure. I’m going to go call Mycroft for you; is there anything else you need?” Asked Christian. Sherlock shook his head, settling back against the pillows to watch John as he breathed.

_One._

_Two._

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

“Sherlock? Mycroft will be in soon.”

_Fourteen._

_Fifteen._

_Sixteen._

_Seventeen._

_Eighteen._

“Sherlock, I’ve brought you a meal. You need to eat.” 

_Twenty-five._

_Twenty-six._

_Twenty-seven._

_Twenty-eight._

_Twenty-nine._

_Thirty._

“Sherlock? Mycroft is here.” Mycroft took a seat next to Sherlock’s bed, umbrella resting against the wall.

“‘Lock? What’s going on?” Asked Mycroft gently.

“I need your help.”


	4. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly filler before the next chapter. Sorry I've been gone for so long!!

Two weeks later, Sherlock and Mycroft escorted a very weary John back to 221B Baker Street in one of Mycroft’s fancy cars. John didn’t really care; he just wanted to be home so he could sleep. He knew Imogen and Lizzie were at home with Abby and Jemima, and Sherlock was him, so he wasn’t overly worried. Sherlock, on the other hand, was a ball of nerves, tension and anxiety locked tight under his skin as he willed them home faster. Mycroft and Christian, who had opted to travel home with them as a precaution, were calm and collected, Mycroft observing Sherlock, Christian watching John. The car pulled up out the front of 221, and Sherlock was out in a flash, opening the car door for his husband, and assisting him to a standing position, Christian on the other side. Mycroft stepped forward, unlocking the front door and pulling it open for the unusual party. John walked forward carefully, assisted by the men either side of him, mind focussed purely on getting inside. Once he reached the steps, he realised his predicament.

“How am I supposed to reach the top? I can barely walk as it is,” snarked John. Sherlock stepped in swiftly, lifting his husband into his arms and carrying him to the top of the stairs, Christian and Mycroft not far behind. Sherlock deposited him onto a lounge in the living room, which appeared much larger than John remembered. John glanced around, a little confused, then looked at Mycroft for an answer.

“We’ve done a little remodelling to help you and Sherlock fit in better. I’d like to show you, but a lot of it has happened upstairs,” explained Mycroft. John nodded, leaning forward to splay his hands across his temples, feeling slightly nauseous.

“John? Are you okay?” Asked Christian carefully.

“I need to lie down,” he whispered. Christian nodded, and he and Sherlock helped lift John to his feet, Mycroft leading the way down the hall. He opened the door carefully, and John found himself in what appeared to be a guest room, the room devoid of personal belongings.

“We’ll explain more a little later,” whispered Sherlock. He kissed John briefly before exiting the room, Mycroft and Christian behind him.

“He was calmer than expected,” mused Christian.

“He wasn’t. He was overwhelmed. We should have told him about the changes to our apartment before we brought him home. John hasn’t been coping well with change,” muttered Sherlock.

“I’m going to stick around for a while, make sure he’s okay when he comes out. Would that be okay?” Asked Christian. Sherlock nodded, glancing up at his brother.

“I would like to stay, but I do have a few matters to attend to before I return this evening. I’ll come back in a few hours,” said Mycroft gently. Sherlock nodded, listening as his brother left, heavy footsteps traded for the lighter footsteps of Mrs Hudson as she entered the flat.

“How’s John doing?” She asked quietly.

“He’s asleep,” replied Sherlock brusquely.

“Right. Well, I’m going to make you some lunch. Is there anything in particular you would like?” Asked Mrs Hudson.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You don’t get a choice. Mrs Hudson, could we get some tea and sandwiches?” Asked Christian, leaning forward to look at Sherlock.

“I can’t eat at a time like this,” snapped Sherlock.

“You can, and you will. Abby is coming down for lunch, and Lizzie is bringing Jemima down, and we will eat together before you collapse.” Sherlock sighed, resigned to obeying yet another doctor in his life.

“Fine. I’ll eat.”

* * *

When John woke up, he was confused and sore, unsure of where he was. He pushed himself upright, head spinning, and wobbled to his feet. He grabbed the doorframe to steady himself before heading out into the hallway. He could hear voices, voices he couldn’t place, some masculine, feminine, young, old. He staggered into the kitchen, eyes taking in the odd scene; Mrs Hudson making sandwiches, Imogen and Christian calmly eating while observing Sherlock doggedly try to eat a sandwich, Abby sitting at the table deconstructing her own lunch, and Jemima being bottle fed by Lizzie. It was on odd parody of domestication, one that confused John.

“What’s going on?” He asked, voice cracking, legs wobbly. Christian shot up, dropping his half eaten sandwich on his plate.

“We’ve been eating lunch and talking. How are you feeling?” Asked Christian.

“I… I think I might go back to bed,” remarked John, turning awkwardly and leaving the kitchen. Christian glanced at Sherlock, and the pair of them headed down the hall to the guest room.

“John? John, are you alright?” Asked Sherlock gently. He moved around the bed to sit next to John, and realised his beloved was shaking with repressed sobs.

“Are you in pain?” Asked Christian, staying near the door to allow the pair a little space.

“I… I don’t understand,” whimpered John, trying to clutch Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t understand what?”

“You found someone else to love our children. I couldn’t do it the way they needed, so you found someone else,” gasped John. He pulled his hand away from Sherlock, dissolving into incoherent sobs.

“Call me if you need me.” Christian disappeared, leaving Sherlock alone with John. Sherlock crawled onto the bed next to John, rolling him over so he could see his face.

“What is going on inside your head, love?” Whispered Sherlock.

“Everything. You, Harriet, Jemima, Abby, Mycroft, me. What if I’m not the one you want anymore? What if I’m not good enough? I wasn’t good enough for you and Abby before I lost Harry, and now I have no family left,” sobbed John brokenly. Sherlock pulled him in tight, holding him close, soothing him with his hands, murmuring under his breath.

“You are _everything_ to me. You are the only one I want, and you are more than enough for me. I married you John, because all I wanted was _you_. I wanted to be your family, to welcome you into mine, to be here with you. Abby and Jemima are a part of your family now, as is Mycroft, Greg, Molly. We are all here for you John,” breathed Sherlock. John clutched Sherlock close, burying his head in his chest, before starting to drift off to sleep. Sherlock watched his husband relax before extricating himself from John’s arms, covering him in a blanket. He backed out of the room, leaving the door ajar, and nearly ran into Christian.

“How is he?” Asked Christian.

“Confused. Upset. I don’t think he’s handling any of this well, but I’m not sure how to help him,” admitted Sherlock.

“I think I’ll chat to Nate, prescribe him some mood stabilisers, see if we can help him get on track,” decided Christian.

“He’s not the same as before,” fretted Sherlock.

“Sherlock, you’ve got to remember, he was quite depressed before this even happened, and the loss of his sister has made it worse. Now, Lizzie and Imogen have Abby and Jemima settled, Mrs Hudson has offered to stay and help you for a little while, and we’re going to check back in with you later tonight.” Sherlock nodded, glancing back at the guest room before heading back out to the living area. Abby was on the floor, colouring in a new book, Jemima cradled securely in Mrs Hudson’s arms.

“Sit down Sherlock. Have a cuddle with Jemima,” suggested Mrs Hudson. Sherlock tiptoed around Abby and joined Mrs Hudson on the lounge. She passed Jemima across into Sherlock’s arms and stood up.

“Miss Abby, I was thinking of making some fairy cupcakes. Would you like to help me?” Asked Mrs Hudson. Abby looked up at her, tilting her head.

“Fairy cupcakes?” She questioned.

“Vanilla cupcakes with some pink sprinkles,” responded Mrs Hudson.

“Yes please.” Abby ditched her colouring adventures on the floor and took Mrs Hudson’s hand, leaving Sherlock with Jemima, cuddling the infant close. She smelled like powder and milk, fine downy hair on her head, wrapped up tight in a pink blanket. Sherlock moved her to his chest, stretching out awkwardly on the lounge. 

“I love your Papa so much little Jemima. I only hope you can love me just as your Papa,” whispered Sherlock. He held her close, drifting off as he dreamed of family. 

* * *

_Two weeks after being home with Sherlock, Abby and Jemima, John was finally deemed able to be home without any supervision, and Christian, Imogen, Lizzie and Nate headed back to St Barts, leaving John and Sherlock to be independent. John was increasing in strength everyday, surrounded by the love and compassion of his family._

 

_Four weeks after that, John had both his casts removed, and began intensive physiotherapy._

 

_Two days later, he would wish he’d never left the house._

* * *

Abby called him Papa, and he froze momentarily.

“Papa? Could you read me a story?” She asked. John momentarily lost the power of speech before Sherlock intervened.

“He would love to. Why don’t you find him a book to read you?” Asked Sherlock, holding onto Jemima as he expertly fed her.

“Nanna Hudson gave me a new one yesterday.” Abby dashed off, leaving John to glance at Sherlock.

“Thank you,” he mouthed.

“She’s called you Papa since the day you went into surgery at the hospital. I was upset, and she wanted to know what made me upset, and then feared that your accident was her fault. She’s still seeing Dr Turner, and I believe they’ve seen some excellent success. She does love you John, and she’s wanted to spend time with you since you came home. We were holding back to give you some time to heal,” explained Sherlock. John nodded, settling himself on a lounge as Abby appeared with a book. 

“Can we read this one please Papa?” Asked Abby, climbing onto the lounge next to John and snuggling under his arm.

“Of course. ‘ _Once upon a time…_ ’”

* * *

“Papa? Could you walk me to school today please?” Asked Abby through a mouthful of cereal.

“Don’t you want Daddy to do that?” Responded John, placing a plate of toast in front of Sherlock. He was pulling faces at Jemima, who was giggling uncontrollably in response. 

“No thank you Papa. You haven’t walked me to school yet,” replied Abby, slurping down the last remnants of her breakfast. She hopped down from the chair, and left John to gape at his daughter.

“I told you she loves you,” responded Sherlock simply. 

“Guess I’d better pull on some shoes then,” answered John, placing his empty mug into the sink. Abby was waiting for him in the lounge room, jiggling on the spot in her school uniform.

“Hurry up Papa, we’re going to be late!” She exclaimed. John pulled on his boots and stood up.

“Okay little missy, let’s go.” John and Abby headed down the stairs, hand in hand, and out into the street. Abby skipped along next to John, clearly excited about the prospect of Papa walking her to school instead of Daddy. John felt all his senses being a little overwhelmed by being outdoors, but sucked it up to continue walking his daughter. A white van drove past, and John glanced up, noticing as several burly men got out, advancing on John and Abby. 

“Abigail, run! Call Uncle My or Uncle Greg!” Shouted John. He ran at the men, confusing them momentarily before one of them clocked him over the head, knocking him unconscious.

_Abby…_

_Be safe…_


	5. Shades of Purple

When John came to, his head was pounding, the sharp spikes made worse by the bright lights above him.

“Ah, I see you’ve woken up. About time my dear John. Sherlock will be just about frantic by now, won’t he,” remarked the disembodied voice. John leaned over and threw up, the shards of pain piercing his skull. He wouldn’t mind betting that he was suffering another concussion.

“Abby,” gasped John.

“She got away. I can’t believe you did that John; I needed her too,” responded the voice, anger seeping through. John cracked open his eyes to see two men in front of him.

“At least Sherlock will be able to find me,” wheezed John.

“He doesn’t even know where you are, or where to start looking. However, James here has brought you some friends to keep you company; this why we needed Abigail. You will do,” answered the voice. Two young girls were dragged in, ginger haired twins, no more than five years old, both fighting the hands of James Moriarty as he pulled them in.

“Stay here,” he ordered firmly.

“What of their parents?” Asked John quietly.

“That would be my doing, dear John. They were involved in a very large drug ring, and I felt they could no longer continue undermining my own cartel, and I had the ring murdered. Unfortunately, I was unaware of the twins here, and so James was looking after them for while before it was decided we would kidnap you and Abby. It worked well for both of us John; the twins have someone to care for them while James sends your beloved insane with your loss. I will be leaving, but dear James here will check in on you as he sees fit. Let Alice or Carter know if you need anything,” replied the gentleman. John rolled the two names around his tongue, both titles feeling familiar, before realisation dawned on him.

“You were the two that tried to kill Sherlock,” whispered John.

“The money Moriarty pays is good,” shrugged Carter.

“I trusted you to look after him!” Exclaimed John.

“He didn’t die, did he. I could have dosed him much higher than I did, but I was told not to, because Moriarty had other plans,” responded Alice.

“Speaking of Moriarty; John, you have a scheduled hour with Moriarty each day, until you die or Sherlock saves you, whichever comes first. When you are not with him, you are to look after the twins here. Alice can provide you with things you need, and we will monitor your injuries,” explained Carter. He glanced at Alice, then back at Moriarty and the gentleman.

“For now, we will leave you with your two new charges. I will be back tomorrow at 10am sharp.” The four disappeared, leaving John with the two girls.

“My name is John. Do you two have names?” Asked John gently.

“Violet Ivy and Indigo Jade,” whispered one of them. John smiled a little.

“Purple and green. How old are you both?”

“Five.”

“I have a daughter named Abigail who is six. I think you’d get along well with her,” responded John.

“I miss my Mummy,” whispered one.

“Are you Indigo or Violet?”

“Indigo.” John held out his arms, and Indigo and Violet cuddled in close.

“It’s okay to miss your Mum. I miss my Mum as well. Abby doesn’t have a Mum either, but she does have two daddies, and we love her and her sister Jemima very much,” explained John. Violet let out a sniffle, while her sister started to sob.

“I want Mummy and Daddy,” snuffled Violet. John held them closer, trying to comfort them as best as he could.

“I know you do, and I wish I could give them to you.”

* * *

“Uncle My? Uncle My, I’m lost,” whispered Abby into her phone.

“What do you mean? You should be in school,” admonished Mycroft.

“They took Papa, and he told me to run, and to call you. Please help me Uncle My,” pleaded Abby.

“I’m coming to get you now, and I’ll bring Daddy with me. Stay where you are, and I’ll find you. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Okay Uncle My.” Mycroft hung up the phone on his niece, and dialled his brother.

“What do you want?” Demanded Sherlock.

“Get Mrs Hudson to mind Jemima, and I’m coming to get you. Something has happened to John,” explained Mycroft.

“What has happened?”

“I don’t know, but your daughter is out there by herself, and you and I are going to fetch her. Lestrade will meet us there.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs momentarily.” Mycroft let the phone call end, calling out for Anthea. She appeared almost instantly.

“The car is around the front, and the driver has the GPS co-ordinates of Abigail’s phone. DI Lestrade has also been informed, and will meet you there.” Mycroft nodded.

“Thank you. Have we had any word on John?” Asked Mycroft.

“No, but we are keeping an eye on all channels. You will be informed if something of interest appears,” replied Anthea. Mycroft nodded, grabbing his coat and umbrella from the stand near the door.

“Inform Scotland Yard about John’s disappearance.” Mycroft took the stairs two at time before depositing himself into his car. The trip to Baker Street was short, and Sherlock slid into the car gracefully just moments later.

“Where is she?”

“She’s in St. George’s Gardens, hiding,” replied Mycroft.

“What on earth is she doing in there?” Asked Sherlock.

“She and John took a different route than you do. You choose to take the train to Barbican; John chose to leave earlier with Abby and get off at Kings Cross, walking through the streets so they could chat. Unfortunately, it did not bode well for them today. It will take us ten minutes to get there,” responded Mycroft. Sherlock jiggled on the spot, impatient for the car to hurry up and get to his daughter. The driver pulled up in Wakefield Street and cut the engine.

“If it is alright with you Master Holmes, I would like to accompany you to find Miss Abigail,” requested the driver.

“Of course Benjamin. Don’t dally Sherlock.” A police cruiser pulled up behind them, Greg climbing out and joining them. “In pairs. Sherlock with Greg, Benjamin with me.” Sherlock nodded, and the headed down the laneway and into the Gardens. 

“Abby? Abby, it’s Daddy!” Called Sherlock. Mycroft pulled out his phone, dialling his niece.

“Abby? Where are you?” He asked as soon as she picked up.

“I don’t know,” she answered forlornly.

“Can you hear us calling you?” Asked Mycroft. Abby was silent for a moment.

“No.” Her voice was small, and Mycroft could hear the hint of panic in her tone.

“It’s okay. We will find you, okay?”

“Don’t hang up Uncle My. I’m scared,” she whispered. 

“Don’t be frightened little one.”

“Abby!” Called Greg, advancing further through the gardens.

“I can hear Uncle Greg,” exclaimed Abby.

“Can you come out from where you are hiding? Head towards the path,” directed Mycroft. He looked ahead where Sherlock and Greg were, and watched as his niece exited the bushes, leaves and twigs in her hair, face scratched from where she’d forced her way into the undergrowth.

“Abigail!” Exclaimed Sherlock. She whirled around, fear on her face before sprinting for her father. Sherlock squatted down, opening his arms and holding her close to his chest. She sobbed into his shoulder, still clutching her phone, and Mycroft and Benjamin hurried to them.

“Thank God we have her,” breathed Greg.

“Hush darling, you’re okay,” soothed Sherlock.

“They have Papa!” She exclaimed, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“We will find him. For now though, we are going to visit Christian and Imogen; some of those scratches are bad,” explained Mycroft.

“Why did they take Papa?” Asked Abby, gripping Sherlock tightly as they returned to the car.

“I’m not sure little one, but we will find him.”

* * *

“John?” Whispered one of the twins. John cracked open an eye, not realising he’d started to drift off.

“Hmm?”

“John, something is wrong with Indigo,” whispered Violet, shaking John gently. John shook himself awake before rousing the girl next to him.

“Indi? What’s going on?” Asked John. He could hear it in her breath before she answered; a hitch in her lungs, wheezing, fluid crackling in each breath.

_Bronchitis._

“Alice? Carter! I need some help in here!” Called John, sitting the little girl up. Carter entered the dimly lit room, casting an eye across the trio.

“What’s going on?” He asked, arms crossed, eyebrow raised.

“I think she’s got bronchitis. Have we got anything to treat her with?” Asked John desperately.

“Alice and I are only paid to treat you John, not the two brats. You’d better hope that your beloved finds you soon.” Carter exited the room, locking the door behind him. John pulled Indigo to her feet, placing her on the only bed in the room. He climbed in behind her, pulling the blankets around them in an effort to try and raise her core temperature, her skin blanching in the cold. Violet settled in front of her sister, laying down in a mirror image of her twin, holding her hand. 

“You’ll feel better soon Indi. John will save us.”

* * *

“We’ve heard nothing Mycroft. What is going on? Who has him?” Asked Sherlock. It was nearing twenty-four hours since John had disappeared, and nothing had come up.

“I haven’t heard anything yet, but don’t despair. I have heard of something interesting through my own networks; I’m surprised you haven’t heard it through the homeless network,” responded Mycroft, shuffling papers on his desk. 

“What is it?” Asked Sherlock.

“We’ve had several drug rings go missing. Not just members, but full rings,” replied Greg.

“That takes someone higher up to end a drug ring; most of them are addled already. No, it has to be someone else topping the rings,” responded Sherlock.

“We received word that two of the people in the ring had twins together, and they’re also missing,” added Mycroft.

“So we’re not only looking for John, but two young children. Is that what I’m hearing?” Asked Sherlock. Mycroft nodded.

“We are. I do have a question though.”

“Hmm?”

“Have you heard from Moriarty at all? Could he be behind this? My contacts have not been able to locate him, which concerns me,” added Mycroft. Sherlock sat up straighter, eyes widening.

“I haven’t heard from him since the Baskerville case. Do you think it could be him?” Asked Sherlock.

“You are the resident expert on Moriarty. What do you think?”

* * *

“Get up.”

“What about the twi…?"

“Get up! Moriarty doesn’t like to be kept waiting!” Carter jabbed John between the shoulder blades, forcing him up and out of the cramped basement, Alice staying behind with Indigo and Violet. John stumbled through the manor, into another part of the house, the walls thick, door lined, paint dark.

“Come in John. Make yourself comfortable. We’ve got a long hour ahead of us.”


	6. Breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hater's gonna hate - this is fiction, and it's MY fiction, so whatever happens will happen.

_His jaw ached._

_Ears rang._

_Nose still full of blood._

_But he had survived the hand of Moriarty._

* * *

“It’s been nearly two days! Where is he?” Demanded Sherlock.

“I do not know, brother mine. Have you eaten?” Asked Mycroft, not glancing up from his desk.

“Yes. I ate with Abigail and Jemima this morning before I left the two of them with Mrs Hudson,” grumbled Sherlock.

“Good. Now, back to our discussion from yesterday. Do you think it could be Moriarty?” Sherlock shrugged.

“It is not his typical motive, but I would not put it past him. He is aware of my attachment to John,” replied Sherlock.

“If that is the case, then focus your attention on finding him. He may have answers, or better yet; he may have John. Where was he last?” Asked Mycroft.

“Dating Molly. Then he turned, tried to kill John in front of me,” responded Sherlock, hands steepled in front of him as he delved into his own mind, trying to think about where Moriarty could be.

“Then trace back his life from there. He could be the key to finding John.”

* * *

“John? John, are you okay?” Asked Violet quietly.

“I’ll be okay. Can you pass me a towel please?” Asked John thickly. Indigo passed him one of the towels from the bed and he pressed it to his face, hoping to stem the flow of blood from his newly damaged nose. 

“John? Can we go home now?” Asked Indigo softly. John shook his head, regretting it as stars sprung up in his eyes.

“Soon Indi. Soon,” he replied gently.

“Alice brought us some colouring in to do,” started Violet.

“I coloured a butterfly. Would you like to see?” Finished Indigo.

“Of course I’d like to look. Show me what you’ve been doing.”

* * *

“He’s not breaking.”

“I can see that James. The question is, what are you going to do about that?” Asked Charles calmly.

“I still have a few cards up my sleeve Charles. You’ve never doubted me before; don’t start now,” retorted James, frustrated.

“I’m not doubting your talent James. I am doubting your ability to pull this off and get what you want.”

“All I’ve ever wanted is for the Holmes brothers to get off my back, to let me be the ‘consulting criminal’ I’ve always desired to be. If I can’t have Sherlock broken to my will, then I’ll aim higher; for Mycroft,” replied James. Charles leaned back in his chair, arms folded in front of him, a smile creeping across his face.

“I think you have some negotiations to tender, dear boy.” James stood up, pulling on his coat.

“I think you have some plans to set in motion, Mr Magnussen.”

* * *

Mycroft sat in his office alone, Sherlock have returned back to his home to spend some time with his children while deliberating in his mind palace. Mycroft chose to use the time to push paperwork through, so he could take some leave once this was all resolved, and spend some time away with Sherlock, John and his nieces. He glanced up at his computer, checking the CCTV feeds of London, when something caught his eye outside his office chambers.

 _James Moriarty_.

“Anthea? Please buzz the gentleman in the chambers through, and call my brother and Greg Lestrade in immediately,” ordered Mycroft. 

“ _Yes sir._ ” Mycroft heard his door open, and he glanced up.

“James Moriarty. How can I be of service?” Asked Mycroft, setting his pen and paperwork to the side.

“I’ve come to discuss the terms of a trade,” replied Moriarty calmly.

“If you give me a few more moments, I will have witnesses here to make sure you go through on those terms. Would you mind waiting?” Asked Mycroft.

“Of course. John and the girls may not have those few moments though, so whatever happens is on your head,” answered Moriarty. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and willed his brother and Greg to arrive faster. His prayers were answered seconds later when Sherlock and Greg strode into the room. They each took a stand behind Mycroft, Sherlock deferring to his older brothers wisdom over his own.

“What are your terms?” Asked Mycroft.

“First; I want you, Sherlock and Scotland Yard to leave me be. No more trying to track me down, imprisonment. Just peace to let me do what I want to do. Second; I want one of you. Preferably Sherlock, however I am open to Mycroft given the state that dear John will be in once you find him. Third is something a little unusual, however it is a clause that John himself agreed on, hence the change to number two. Third; you take Violet Ivy and Indigo Jade in and raise them as your own. Unfortunately, their parents were killed in unforeseen circumstances, and I’m not one for injuring children. I do have some honour and integrity. What say you to these terms?” Mycroft hesitated for a moment, shuffling papers on his desk before looking Moriarty square in the eye.

“No deal to one. Two; I am needed in this office. However, you can take Anthea Stewart, my PA, as that would cause me great inconvenience and discord, and my brother would not benefit from that arrangement either. Three; that would be entirely up to John and Sherlock as to whether they would take in any further children. Abigail and Jemima are theirs through blood relation, where Indigo and Violet are not. However, in any case, they would be well cared for, and their futures funded by the Holmes Foundation. Would that suffice?” Replied Mycroft.

“A woman, you say? I have not had the pleasures of a woman for a while. I think this could be agreed on. Now, I would recommend you start moving; John and the twins will be running out of air soon, and I’d hate to see them die. Good luck searching the Thames.” Moriarty stood up, leaving the office, and Mycroft could hear as Anthea struggled with Moriarty.

“You gave your assistant to a known criminal?” Asked Greg disbelievingly.

“No. I gave him a former member of both MI5 and MI6. There is a reason I gave her to him; she is well trained at what she does. Do not mention it again,” reprimanded Mycroft sharply. Sherlock looked at them both scathingly, raising his hands and his voice.

“This is not finding John!”

* * *

“Where are we going John?”

“Why are we leaving?”

“I don’t know. I’ll look out for you, promise.” The man led them to a truck, pulling open the back.

“Get in.” John lifted Indigo in first, then Violet before hoisting himself up. The doors slammed closed, pitching them into darkness, and John heard the engine start.

“I don’t like the dark,” whispered Indigo, clutching John’s hand.

“It’s alright. Hopefully we can get out soon,” reassured John. The van lurched forward, and John used both hands to try and catch himself, crying out as his left wrist bent awkwardly. The floor rumbled, gears shifting, and John felt the incline change, the speed increase. He heard a door open, before a sharp screech and a sudden drop had them plummeting. It was a moment of zero gravity before everything came to a sudden stop, the sound of water slapping the exterior of the truck, the girls and John gasping for breath after the sudden impact. It took John a few moments to realise what trouble they were in.

“Oh god. No,” whispered John. He stood up awkwardly, leaning against the side of the truck and using his good arm to pound against the steel wall.

“Hello? Help! Somebody please!” Screamed John. He felt the water lapping his ankles, and knew it wouldn’t take long for the space to fill. He sighed, tears streaking down his cheeks as he rested his head against the wall.

“Sherlock, please. Find us.”

* * *

“The Thames spans through London. Where would he be Sherlock?” Asked Greg, hand ready to dial diving and retrieval teams. Sherlock sat in the back of the patrol car, hands steepled in front of him, deep in thought. Mycroft glanced at his brother, waiting for his response. 

“‘Lock?” Asked Mycroft gently.

“Millbank. It’s almost a direct line from Baker Street, and Moriarty would do it to be blatantly obvious. He didn’t expect you to go through with the agreement, or to better it, so he had to think hastily. Have there been any reports from the public about a vehicle driving into the Thames?” Asked Sherlock, looking up at Greg. He scrolled through the call list, sifting through a myriad of domestic disturbances and jaywalking pedestrians before he found it.

“An hour ago, a concerned bystander observed a truck driving into the Thames. He checked on the driver who had managed to launch himself from the vehicle, and then they were waiting for a tow truck,” responded Greg.

“An hour ago? John could be out of time!” Exclaimed Sherlock. Greg flipped on his lights and sirens, winding through the streets like a madman before screeching to a halt in Millbank. Sherlock threw himself out, straight into the murky waters of the Thames.

“Sherlock! What are you doing?!” Shouted Mycroft.

“Hurry up and get help here!” Responded Sherlock. He ducked under the water, listening carefully.

_Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap._

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

_Tap. Tap._

_Tap._

_Tap._

He surfaced, spluttering.

“He’s running out of air!” Screamed Sherlock. He watched as police divers joined them, tipping over the side of the powerboat and into the water, Greg and Mycroft watching on from the side of the road.

“Mr Holmes, we can continue on from here. I’ve been instructed to take you back to the boat,” said one of the swimmers gently. Sherlock nodded, already shivering, and followed the diver back to the vessel. Strong hands lifted him up onto the deck, towels wrapped around him, a blanket placed on top to try and warm him up. It was quiet for a few minutes, Sherlock’s anxiety levels climbing steadily as the divers continued to surface and dive. He was ready to throw up when one of the divers surface with their hand raised.

“We’ve found it!” Came the cry across the water. The divers surged together, and Sherlock stood up.

“Sit down Mr Holmes,” said another sergeant, pushing him down onto his seat. Sherlock shook her off.

“John? JOHN!” Screamed Sherlock. Two divers surfaced, each with a young girl in tow, and dragged them towards the boat. Two officers dragged them onto the deck, starting CPR on them as the divers returned to the submerged vehicle. Sherlock watched on earnestly, waiting for them to find his beloved.

_He fell to his knees as they brought him to the surface._

_Not breathing._

_Black and blue._

_Face bloodied._

_Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face._

_“John…”_


	7. Drowning

_“John…”_

One of the girls spluttered first, before her twin followed suit, choking on the murky water as they were rolled into the recovery position. Sherlock had eyes only on John’s unconscious, broken body. The divers hauled him close to the boat, and two other officers tugged him up onto the deck. The divers pulled themselves up as the boat started up again, heading for the shore. 

_Sherlock lost himself in the moment._

“John?” He whispered. The police officers continued pumping his chest, trying to encourage his lungs to take over for him. The boat pulled into the dock, a trio of ambulances waiting for them, paramedics flooding on board.

“Sir, you can’t come with us,” stated one.

“No, please, you have to let me!” Pleaded Sherlock desperately. Mycroft and Greg joined them on the dock, restraining Sherlock as the paramedics loaded John into the back of an ambulance.

“Sherlock, calm down,” said Mycroft quietly.

“My husband could be dead, and you want me to calm down?”

“If you don’t calm down you could have another seizure. You know that. Settle,” said Mycroft calmly. Sherlock took a deep shaking breath, steadying himself before nodding and following Mycroft and Lestrade off the dock.

“Were they the twins you spoke of? Indigo and Violet?” Asked Sherlock. Mycroft joined him in the back of the cruiser as Lestrade took the wheel, heading for St Bart’s.

“Yes. Unfortunately their parents were involved in an unsavoury drug cartel, and the result was their death. However, for Moriarty, the children were an unexpected facet of his greater plan, and he deviated from what would be standard. We will make this work Sherlock; I know that you and John were not expecting anymore children, and having two more thrust upon you is not ideal. We will work this out,” reassured Mycroft. Sherlock looked down at his hands, his own heart torn.

“They look like Enola. When she was young,” whispered Sherlock. 

_The little sister they’d lost seventeen years ago._

Lestrade pulled up in front of St Bart’s, allowing Mycroft and Sherlock to climb out and enter the building while he parked the police cruiser.

“It’ll be hard,” replied Mycroft quietly as they stepped into a lift.

“Of course it will be hard. I never asked for children Mycroft; I never desired ‘offspring’ in the way a conventional couple may, never hoped that I could be a parent, and now you’re asking me to take on four offspring? Christ Mycroft, you don’t ask for much do you,” reprimanded Sherlock.

“Talk to John about it…”

“He is fighting for his life right now! I can’t just waltz in there and say ‘John dearest, I’ve realised that I don’t want to be parent, especially not to four young girls. Hope you feel better soon!’” Exclaimed Sherlock.

“I’m not asking you to do it right now. Just take a breath and stop,” replied Mycroft. Sherlock felt like his skin was too tight, blood rushing in his ears, adrenaline high, waiting to explode.

“I can’t brea…” Sherlock fell to his knees, chest heaving as Mycroft looked around desperately.

“Help!” Christian was in front of him in seconds.

“Sherlock, I need you to slow your breathing,” said Christian calmly. Sherlock shook his head.

“What’s wrong with him? Is it another seizure?” Asked Mycroft.

“No, I think it’s a panic attack. Watch out.” Sherlock toppled sideways, unconscious, and Christian caught him easily. Anna appeared with a wheelchair, and Christian wrestled Sherlock’s lanky body into it. 

“Up into Doctor Watson’s room?” Asked Anna.

“Please.” Christian stood up, dusting himself off as Greg appeared.

“What happened?”

“Sherlock, panic attack. He’ll be okay, but perhaps we should head up to one of the conference rooms,” said Christian, indicating the lift. The three men jammed inside, and headed for the fourth floor, the same floor that Sherlock and John were being treated on, the same that they had been treated in for the past two years. Christian was out of the lift as soon as the doors opened, white coat billowing behind him as he walked. Molly appeared around the corner, joining them as they entered the conference room.

“Tell me what’s going on,” demanded Christian.

“What?”

“John and Sherlock are both in here, there are two other little girls in here, and I have no idea what has happened to John, except that his injuries are severe, and our pulmonologist is worried about water in the lungs. I’ve never seen Sherlock that panicked before, and their better be a good explanation,” replied Christian.

“Sherlock is panicking over the probability he is going to become a parent to four little girls, something he doesn’t think he is equipped to do. Part of getting John back was agreeing to take Violet and Indigo, and something in Sherlock’s mind just snapped,” explained Mycroft.

“I think we might consult with Nate on this one, get him involved with Sherlock and John as they adjust to this change. Are you sure you’ve made the right choice here Mycroft?” Asked Christian.

“My brother has always made his choice in drugs and consulting with Scotland Yard. When Abby became part of the unit, things changed. He started to look after his own health, managed to start teaching Abby violin, and I hadn’t heard Greg complain for nearly three months that Sherlock was interfering in cases. He was the most stable I have seen him since Enola died, and that was something I wanted to try and keep, for John’s sake, for Sherlock’s sake,” responded Mycroft tightly.

“Who was Enola?” Asked Christian gently.

“Our youngest sister. The ‘surprise’ Holmes. She died nearly seventeen years ago; drowned. A school child had held her underwater until she stopped breathing, and there was nothing that any medical personnel could have done. Sherlock found her, face down, and after the school nurse and emergency services had been called, he shut down. He stopped interacting with the world, started taking drugs, consuming alcohol; I took him to university with me when it all became too much, and I never managed to get him close to the straight and narrow. John Watson did that, and now, he’s not able to. How are we going to help him?” Asked Mycroft.

“We will, don’t worry.”

* * *

Abigail Temperance Watson-Holmes was never one to change her routine, but when her Uncle Mycroft asked for her to come and see Daddy and Papa, she agreed, following Molly and Jemima out to one of Mycroft’s cars. She watched the world pass by as they travelled quickly  through London to St Bart’s, a place she was fast becoming familiar with. Imogen was waiting outside for her, dressed in pink scrubs. Mycroft helped Abby out of the car, Molly behind him, cradling Jemima. Abby ran to Imogen, wrapping her arms around her legs.

“Miss Abby, we have a surprise for you,” said Imogen, squatting down to Abby’s level.

“Surprise?” Asked Abby.

“Upstairs. Would you like to see?” Responded Imogen. Abby nodded slowly, thoughtful, and Mycroft was struck with the similarity between Sherlock and his daughter. Imogen led the way, Mycroft, Molly and Jemima not far behind. 

“Mycroft, are you sure this is a good idea?” Hissed Molly.

“This was not my idea,” answered Mycroft simply, following his niece through the corridors as she conversed with Imogen. They were led to the Paediatrics Unit.

“But she didn’t react well to Jemima, and now you want to expose her to two more people who are going to be sharing her life?” Responded Molly.

“I am merely following the instructions of medical staff who are much better informed than I. You are welcome to stay with them; I have other matters to attend,” replied Mycroft. He left quickly, sweeping through the halls, leaving Molly to follow Imogen and Abby into the Paediatrics unit. She found Sherlock sitting inside, watching over two young girls. He glanced at Molly, and stretched out his arms. She passed him Jemima, and he cradled her to his chest, pulling a blanket over them as she snuggled close, lulled by his heartbeat. Molly took a seat next to Sherlock, looking over the three girls sitting on the floor, colouring in together.

“What’s going on?” She asked quietly.

“Christian and Imogen felt that it would be of benefit for Abigail, Violet and Indigo to meet each other, to calm my own mind,” answered Sherlock. Nate entered the room, watching as the three young girls interacted, then looked across to Sherlock, noting the tension in his posture.

“Is it? Calm, I mean,” said Molly. Sherlock shook his head.

“No. It feels like an earthquake has rocked through me, reminding me of every bad moment or poor decision I have made. I don’t believe I am fit to be a parent, let alone to four girls, and John would be here, reassuring me of my worth and validity, but he’s in Intensive Care, and he can’t reassure me, and I don’t know what to do,” responded Sherlock tightly. Molly laid a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, warmth seeping through to his tired soul.

“Sherlock, you have proven yourself competent with Abby, and you’re fast falling for Jemima everyday. You love them both, and I believe you were asked to take Indigo and Violet because Moriarty wanted to see if he could break your spirit, to remind you that you are useless. You aren’t Sherlock, and you do know that. This is not Enola again, and you will be there to save them no matter what,” reminded Molly. Sherlock leaned against her as she wrapped her arms around him, watching as the three youngsters shared their colouring in.

“Where would we even fit four children?”

* * *

John sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, startling Mycroft, who was seated next to him. 

“Vi… Ind… Sher…” he gasped, and Mycroft stood up, towering over him, gently pushing him back against the pillows.

“Violet and Indigo are down in the Paediatrics Unit with Imogen. Sherlock is with them, and Molly and I brought Abby and Jemima in to see him. Would you like me to have Sherlock or Christian paged?” Asked Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” he breathed, relaxing into the pillow. Mycroft disappeared for a moment, returning almost instantly, Christian behind him.

“Sherlock will be up in a moment. Do you remember what happened?” Asked Christian, lifting John’s chart from the end of the bed.

“Truck, in the water,” sighed John.

“Yes. Do you remember anything else?” Asked Christian.

“Violet and Indigo. Are they… are they okay?” Asked John quietly. 

“Indigo has a touch of bronchitis, and we are monitoring her for potential pneumonia given the fact she inhaled some water. Violet appears to be fine, other than a case of night terrors. They’ve been asking for you, but we thought it best to let you wake up before they saw you,” responded Christian.

“Me?”

“You’ve broken your wrist; we set it in surgery, and we’re monitoring you for any potential brain injury or adverse effects from the river you tried to swallow.” Sherlock appeared in the doorway, Jemima cradled in his arms against his chest, and glanced at John.

“Sherlock,” whispered John, and in four long strides, Sherlock was sitting next to him, long fingered hands wrapping around his good hand, squeezing him gently. 

“You’ve been here for a few days now, enough for us to downgrade you to a regular room. Would you like to see Violet and Indigo?” Asked Christian. John nodded, looking only at Sherlock. Christian and Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock and Jemima with John.

“Part of the deal that Mycroft brokered with Moriarty is that we take Indigo and Violet,” whispered Sherlock. John glanced into his eyes.

“Is that what you want?” Asked John.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I want anymore,” responded Sherlock quietly. Jemima squirmed a little, and Sherlock automatically moved to quieten her. 

_Already a natural._

Christian and Imogen appeared, Violet, Indigo and Abigail with them. Abby headed straight for Sherlock, who let go of John and wrapped his free arm around her, kissing the top of her dark head. Violet and Indigo were a little more hesitant, and looked at John for encouragement.

“Come here,” he whispered, and Imogen and Christian helped them up onto the bed. They sat together, and Sherlock noticed almost instantly.

“They’re afraid,” said Sherlock softly. 

“Afraid of what?” Asked John, glancing at his husband.

“That you won’t want them. That they’ll be alone, forgotten, abandoned,” explained Sherlock quietly, drawing Abby close while lifting Jemima a little higher. 

“Oh.”

“They’ve bonded with you; they’ve lost their parents and developed an attachment to you. The answer is inevitable,” replied Sherlock wearily.

“Answer?”

“As to whether the twins stay with us, or whether we leave them in the care of the Holmes Foundation.”


	8. Putting Together a Family

John was released four days later, with instructions to relax and recover as best as possible, the twins released an hour before him. Mrs Hudson had agreed to come up and cook meals for them, after one disastrous evening where Sherlock attempted to set the flat on fire. Mycroft agreed to chauffeur the growing family home. John waited for Mycroft to come and retrieve him, feeling the panic set in as he realised that perhaps he wasn’t ready to come home with two new little girls to try and fit in to such a tiny flat. He wrung the blanket on his bed nervously, not noticing the elder Holmes as he entered the room. 

“John? Are you ready?” Asked Mycroft solemnly.

“Where are they going to sleep? Come to think of it, where will I sleep? How will this even work?” Despaired John.

“You need to trust that it will work John. Everything has been adapted in your absence. Please, do not pass out now; I don’t think my brother would forgive me if you didn’t come home today,” responded Mycroft smoothly. John took a deep breath, steadying himself before standing up. The awkward pair headed for the Paediatrics Unit, where Imogen had Violet and Indigo waiting for John. They were holding hands, looking frightened, and John crouched down to their level.

“What’s got you frightened?” Asked John quietly.

“Where are we going?” Breathed Indigo.

“Are we staying with you?” Added Violet timidly.

“Of course you are. I’m not leaving either of you, I promise,” answered John. He pulled them close, holding them tight, before releasing them and standing up. “This is your Uncle Mycroft. He’s going to take us home,” added John. Mycroft nodded to each twin.

“Miss Violet, Miss Indigo. If you’d follow me.” John walked behind the pair as they followed Mycroft into the lift. The music was a melancholy reminder to John just how many times he’d been stuck inside or visited St Bart’s, and he hoped to God that he wouldn’t be back for a long time. The lift arrived at the ground floor, and the quartet stepped out, heading for the double doors. The twins hair shone in the midday sun, red hair gleaming, and John smiled at the pair of them, feeling his heart swell with love at the sight. Benjamin opened the door for them, and they crawled inside the large vehicle, John not far behind them. Mycroft opted to take the front seat, and Benjamin closed the doors, taking the drivers seat. John had a twin either side of him, holding them close as the car travelled to Baker Street. When the vehicle pulled up, Mycroft stepped out, pulling open the rear door so John, Indigo and Violet could get out. 

“Is this home?” Asked Indigo, holding Violet’s hand.

“Yes, this is home,” replied John. He pushed open the door, and the smell of freshly baked biscuits swirled around him, the scent heavenly after days of hospital food.

“John? Is that you? Oh, you’ve got the two little dears with you,” said Mrs Hudson, bustling out of her flat. John felt Indigo and Violet press back against him, unsure of the woman. Mycroft stepped inside, placing his coat on the rack near the door, leaning his umbrella against the wall.

“Vi, Indi, this is Nana Hudson. She lives downstairs, and we live upstairs. Shall we go see where Sherlock and Abby are?” Asked John, forced cheerfulness in his voice. He led the way this time, up into the flat, where Sherlock was lying on his side on the floor, Jemima on a blanket next to him, giggling as he threatened to blow a raspberry on her belly. Abigail was sitting on the couch, watching her father and her sister on the floor, and glanced up as John entered the room. 

“Papa!” Abby launched herself off the lounge, straight to John, and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m glad you’re home.”

“Me too. Do you remember Vi and Indi from the hospital?” Asked John, hugging his daughter back.

“Uncle My helped. Come see!” Exclaimed Abby. She led the way up the next flight of stairs, and John realised just how much had been accomplished in his absence, moreso than his previous absence when he’d had his accident. 221C had been entirely taken over, ceasing to exist as a singular unit. There were three bedrooms upstairs, a sitting area, and a bathroom. Sherlock appeared behind John, and passed him Jemima, and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.

“I’ve missed you,” said Sherlock quietly. 

“This is my room; it has butterflies on the walls, and a nightlight that looks like stars!” Abigail’s room had been entirely redecorated in a pale shade of lilac, with a small white desk in the corner, a toybox that John was _sure_ would be filled with toys, and a purple shag rug on the floor, said nightlight plugged in near the head of the bed. Violet and Indigo were quite, and John wondered what was troubling them.

“Abby? Why don’t you show Indigo and Violet where they will be sleeping?” Suggested Sherlock, standing behind John and wrapping his arms around John carefully, resting his chin on John’s shoulder. 

“Okay! Your room is next door. Come on!’

“I’d kill for her energy right now,” whispered John to Sherlock. Abby led Violet and Indigo into a corner room, where the eaves of the building would have come low. She swung the door open proudly, and John practically gaped at the room. Two beds were in the corner at a ninety degree angle, covered in cream floral bedspreads, an abundance of cushions covering them. A built in wardrobe featuring mirrored doors made the room feel twice as large, and at the foot of each bed was a personalised storage box, with each twin’s name printed on them in elegant script. Sherlock’s handwriting, if John had recognised the style correctly. John handed Jemima back to Sherlock for a moment, and crouched down next to the twins, acutely aware that Mycroft was listening in as well somewhere in the sitting area. 

“Violet, Indigo, I know you’ve been worried about what is going to happen. Would you like me to explain what is going on?” Asked John gently. Indigo nodded, reaching for her sister’s hand. Sherlock glanced at John, swaying on the balls of his feet, and passed Jemima to Mycroft, ignoring his protests as he joined his husband in front of two frightened little girls.

“We would like you to become part of our…” Sherlock hesitated, looking for confirmation in John’s eyes.

“Part of our family. I know something scary happened to your Mum and Dad, and you’re still scared, but we would like you to stay. With us,” explained John haltingly. Violet broke first, tears streaming down her face as she launched herself at John, wrapping her arms around John’s neck. Indigo went for Sherlock instead, and Sherlock put his long, lanky arms around her as she sobbed into his shoulder. After a few long minutes, the tears started to wane, calming down to sniffles and hiccups. Sherlock stood up, lifting Indigo easily, and placed her on the bed, drawing a blanket around her as she started to drift off to sleep. Sherlock turned around, watching as John’s colour started to drain from his face. In an instant, Sherlock was beside him, lifting Violet from his arms and into the opposite bed as she followed her twin into an exhausted slumber.

“Are you alright?” Asked Sherlock quietly, cupping his hands under John’s chin.

“I’m just exhausted, and frankly, a little overwhelmed,” replied John softly. Sherlock nodded, helping his husband to his feet, pulling him close.

“I’ve missed you,” reiterated Sherlock. He tilted John’s chin upwards, and caught his lips in a gentle kiss.

“Ew,” exclaimed Abby, nose wrinkled at the sight of her parents kissing.

“Don’t mind us,” replied Mycroft loftily. Jemima added to the commotion by spitting up on Mycroft’s eight hundred pound hand-tailored suit, and Sherlock smiled at his daughter.

“Good effort Jemima. It’s nice to remind Mycroft that he can be a mere mortal,” chuckled Sherlock. He released John and headed for Mycroft, intending to take Jemima from him, when John’s knees went out from under him, and he found himself crashing into the floor.

“John? What’s wrong?” Begged Sherlock, kneeling next to John. Mycroft stood and was on his phone in an instant, making demands as he cradled Jemima. Abby hid behind his lanky legs, watching on in horror as John’s eyes closed, face white. 

“Help will be here momentarily. Is he breathing?” Asked Mycroft. Sherlock leaned in close, listening to John’s breath as he inhaled and exhaled on autopilot, breath sounding a little wheezy.

“Yes, he’s still breathing,” answered Sherlock. He ran a hand through John’s hair, worried about his partner. Loud footfalls could be heard coming up the stairs, and Christian burst through the door, vibrating with nervous energy.

“Let me see,” demanded Christian. Sherlock backed away from John, allowing Christian space as he checked over John.

“Is he… will he be alright?” Asked Sherlock warily, watching Christian as he worked.

“I think he’s developed pneumonia. It sounds like he has fluid on the lungs. Yes Sherlock, he’ll be okay, but he needs rest right now, and I’d say he’s just pushed himself a little too far. Would you like some help getting him down the stairs?” Asked Christian.

“Yes, please,” he replied politely. Christian and Sherlock braced John between them, and carefully shuffled him down the stairs and into their bedroom, the bed already made up for them earlier. Sherlock turned down the sheets, then held John upright while Christian arranged the pillows so John would sit a little more upright. Together, they wrestled him into bed, and Sherlock took off his shoes, covering him gently with a blanket before exiting the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.

“He’ll be fine Sherlock. I’ll leave you with some antibiotics for John to take, and I’ll give you my number in case you need me. Just, just don’t panic me like that again,” demanded Christian. Sherlock nodded.

“I believe that was Mycroft’s fault,” responded Sherlock.

“It may well have been, but all three of you knew that when John came home today, he was expected to rest. Not to wander the house and deal with children, but to _rest_. Do you understand?” Asked Christian. Sherlock nodded again.

“Understood.”

“Right. I’ll be off then. Goodbye Mycroft!” Called Christian. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, taking his youngest daughter back from him.

“We’ll be okay,” reassured Sherlock, more for himself than Mycroft’s sake. Mycroft nodded, heading for the stairs, Sherlock behind him.

“You know where to find me if you need anything,” responded Mycroft, collecting his umbrella and coat.

“Has the paperwork been filed?” Asked Sherlock.

“Of course, brother mine. Indigo and Violet are now yours, and yours alone. Go spend some time with your husband Sherlock,” replied Mycroft. Sherlock nodded, and embraced his brother briefly.

“Thank you. For everything.”

* * *

As the weeks trawled into months, the Watson-Holmes family settled into an easy routine, one that was often disrupted by visits to the school all three older girls attended, or by a case - but only an eight or higher.

 

Mycroft often babysat, much to Sherlock’s delight; his own brother playing pretend with his daughters, attending tea parties with such sincerity that Sherlock could barely contain his own glee.

_He didn’t know that Mycroft loved spending time with Sherlock’s children, even if it meant delving into the imagination of five- and six-year-olds._

 

Greg and Molly split up after a while, Greg citing his need to work, Molly desperate to focus on her own job rather than a love life.

_Yet they still remained friends, something that John knew puzzled Sherlock._

 

Jemima’s first birthday was an intimate, family only celebration, with Mycroft included. She was a precocious child, with the Watson personality shining through strong even at her young age. John loved her the most, memories of his sister flooding through him every time she grinned up at her adoptive fathers.

_He only hoped she wouldn’t inherit the addictive genes that sent her mother over the edge many times before._

 

After a night of hearing Sherlock play violin, weaving melodies through the air, Abby, Vi and Indi demanded to learn too, and Sherlock quickly found himself with willing students. After six months of learning violin with Vi and Indi, Abby declared it ‘dull’, and moved onto cello, surprising her fathers at her adeptness at what seemed to be such an awkward size for a seven-year-old. Soon after, a piano was moved into Baker Street, and Mycroft would join the Watson-Holmes clan on occasion, accompanying the twins and Abby as they practiced valiantly.

_The heart-wrenching moment was watching Abigail, Violet and Indigo perform at a school presentation, their father playing his rarely touched viola to round out the quartet, performing a simplified version of the String Quartet in E Major by Boccherini. John thought his heart would explode as he clapped alongside Mycroft, his talented daughters and husband making his heart swell with pride and love._

 

All was well in the Watson-Holmes family.

Safe and secure from the potential harm from Sherlock’s cases…

Content to continue as they were, safe in the knowledge that all was well.

 

_Until Moriarty returned with a vengeance._

_Until The Fall…_


End file.
